But the panning Channel 7 camera was nowhere near the scene of Jupe’s mind-crime. On the opposite end of the park, the news was reporting that while the Spirit Cove ride had been temporarily closed due to a mechanical malfunction, another La Sirena teen had gone missing. He was last seen by his friends before he left to buy a bag of hot churros. The remnants of the fried dessert were found behind the Sweety Tooth carnival booth . . . next to three crumbled dollar bills spattered with blood.

“Is that him?” Lon asked, peering out the window of the Singing Bean Musical Coffeehouse the following afternoon.

“No. And we still have ten minutes. I told them two o’clock.”

Lon quietly fumed as he glared out the window and sipped tea from a paper cup.

A few minutes passed before Hajo sped up to the coffee shop on a green-and-silver Ducati that looked more like an insect than a motorcycle. Sounded like one too. I doubted it was street legal. Nothing about Hajo was.

“That’s the death dowser,” I said, tapping twice on the window with my fingernail.

Lon watched Hajo as he took off his helmet, then murmured, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” before crumpling his cup and hurling it into the trash.

I adjusted the loop of the skinny black-and-white-striped knit scarf around my neck as I headed outside to greet Hajo. He looked much the same as he had the other night, including the simmering, lusty look in his eyes as he smiled at me. I wondered if he was high. His smile flattened when he saw Lon over my shoulder.

I made introductions. No one bothered to shake hands. Part of me almost regretted that I’d confessed all that stuff about Hajo last night. Lon looked as if he was considering the best way to murder him. Before the situation plunged into a dank pit of awkwardness, Bob drove up. His Hawaiian shirt reflected his oh-so-repentant mood: a somber brown background speckled with black bongo drum silhouettes. He looked up at the darkening stormy sky as he exited his car, then reached through the open door for an umbrella.

Lon followed my line of vision to Bob and promptly headed toward the Earthbound before I could stop him. He held up a casual hand to the oncoming car while he crossed the street, not bothering to look up when the car slammed on brakes and honked.

With a neon-orange umbrella in hand, Bob closed his car door and turned around to find Lon headed right for him with a deathproof swagger and an intent to do some verbal damage.

“Poor Robert,” Hajo sympathized as he saddled up to my side. “Glad that’s not me.”

Lon wasn’t saying much, but he was awfully close to Bob’s face. Bob backed up and flattened against his car, talking rapidly and waving the orange umbrella in front of him to indicate his innocence. A few people gawked as they walked past them.

I should’ve known Lon would be angrier about Bob’s betrayal of my vassal potion than about Hajo’s stepping over the line. Hajo was a stranger. Bob was a friend. Treachery was far worse when it was personal. Lightning cracked through gray sky in the distance. Please let this day be over soon.

With his eyes forged into a single dark slash under a rigid brow, Lon trailed Bob as he scurried across the street. Bob’s round face was flushed beet-red. Dammit. Now I felt sorry for him again. I couldn’t help it. He looked like a kicked dog. When his eyes met mine, I mouthed “sorry.” Then I quickly took control of things before the three of them ended up pounding each other’s heads into the sidewalk.

“I’ve got the tracking object on me,” I said to Hajo. “Do you do this on foot?”

“Usually on my bike.”

“I’m not letting the tracking object out of my sight,” Lon said without emotion as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “No offense, but I don’t trust junkies.”

Hajo was momentarily taken aback. He composed himself, smiled, and said coolly, “None taken.”

“If you have sømna on you now, I’m not getting into a vehicle with you,” Lon said. “I’m not going to chance getting pulled over and arrested.”

“I’m not carrying,” Hajo said.

Lon didn’t press it, so I assumed he read Hajo’s answer as honest. “All right. Let’s go.”

We piled in Lon’s SUV. I drove. Death Boy and Lazy Eye sat in the second row behind us, their feet wading in Jupe’s pile of comics. Lon sat in the passenger seat with a short-barreled Lupara shotgun in his lap, like some Sicilian mobster. I wanted to ask him who he planned on shooting, Hajo or some dead bodies, but he was in a black mood, so I let it go.

Before I put the car in gear, Hajo spoke up from the back. “There’s the little matter of payment before we start.” I glanced at him through the rearview mirror and pulled the brown, half-ounce bottle of the potion out of my jacket pocket, handing it to him through the front seats. Then I pulled out onto the street and headed toward Ocean Drive.

Hajo held the tiny bottle up against the window, checking the level of the liquid in the dimming afternoon light. He unscrewed the dropper top and sucked up the medicinal.

“Bob?” Hajo prodded.

“Is this really necessary?” Bob asked. “I told you, I can vouch for her.”

“Open wide,” Hajo insisted.

“Only one drop. No more. It’s brewed from a mixture of calamus root and Atropa belladonna.”

Hajo paused.

“Deadly nightshade,” I clarified. “One of the most toxic plants known to man. One too many drops could cause heart palpitations and blindness. A few more could kill.”